


Postcards

by 20plus10 (Helen_Pie)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, References to David Bowie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6716662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen_Pie/pseuds/20plus10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to live with Vince after the events of series three, Howard leaves, this time for good. What happens to Vince when he is left behind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postcards

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece of writing in over ten years, so be gentle! I wanted to write about what would happen if Howard decided he could no longer live with Vince after series three, and how Vince picked himself up after being left behind, and this sort of happened. 
> 
> Contains reference to the fact that David Bowie sadly left us in January 2016.

*

Vince was unable to interpret the look on the usually stoic shaman’s face. It was gentle, sad…something else. Suddenly the Topshop bags in his hand felt a hundred times heavier as Vince’s heart started thudding double time against his rib cage

“He’s gone, Vince. He left last night while you were out at that club, said he’d send on for the rest of his stuff later in the week.”

“I don’t understand.”

Naboo sighed and reached up to put a comforting hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Look, Howard left, yeah? He told me to tell you that he thinks it’ll be better this way, that he won’t be cramping your style any more. You’ve got to admit, you two had outgrown each other right? You were always complainin’ about him…”

There was nothing he could say to that. How can you outgrow someone who’s always been there? It’d be like outgrowing Bowie or Gary or his silver Chelsea boots. This was all his fault, he’d been awful recently but he was just so frustrated. Howard always wanted an out, writing, acting, anything did didn’t include his friend. At first, Vince had bottled up his hurt, not even understanding why it hurt so much in the first place, but bit by bit it had come slipping out, even more so recently. He’d been an absolute bitch to live with and Howard had just put up with it. Until now.

The world started spinning and Vince grabbed the counter for support.

“I don’t understand.”

*

PARIS

Vince was hunched over the kitchen table, clad in his worryingly customary sweatpants and Kiss t shirt and halfway through his morning Sugar Puffs when Naboo dropped into the seat next to him, peering at Vince’s make-up free face, trying to discreetly gauge his mood. Vince’s mood had been incredibly volatile over the past three months. He'd lost his sunshine and started wearing far too much loungewear, only getting dressed to mind the shop with even less enthusiasm than before. The Shaman had absolutely no idea how to begin fixing Vince without Howard, and no idea how would he react to this latest news.

“Alright Naboo, you want a cuppa?”

“Nah mate, I’ve already had three cups of Xooberonion coffee this morning.” He paused. “Listen, some post came today and there’s a postcard with the Eiffel Tower on it…it’s from Howard. He sends his best and said he’s travelling for a bit. Says he wants to keep in touch.”

“I don’t want to see it.”

“Vince – “

“I said I don’t want to see it Naboo, fuck off alright?”

“I just think – “

A smash as the bowl hit the wall, scattering sickly sweet puffed rice in all directions around the kitchen.

Chest heaving and somehow on his feet, poised and ready to run, Vince looked at the sugary milk as it slid down the wallpaper onto the lino below. Without a word, he got out of there as fast as he could.

*

ROME

Vince was adrift in a world of vivid colour and shapes, completely immersed in his latest creation as he brought Charlie to life. Bit by bit, he had picked himself up over the last year. Painting had helped, and he’d gone from dishwater dreary watercolours to the neon colours of Charlie, pleasantly surprised at how good it had felt to reunite with an old friend and send him off on new adventures. Somehow his work was spotted by a children’s literature agent, who submitted it to a publisher, and slowly Vince was piecing a new life together, no longer so reliant on the Nabootique and the memories it held.

So immersed was he in his latest canvas that Vince barely noticed Bollo enter his makeshift studio, a pair of half-moon spectacles perched on his nose and clutching a sheaf of papers.

Bollo cleared his throat and Vince jumped, his paintbrush jerking upwards leaving a sticky trail of pink in its wake.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No worries Bollo, easy fixed,” Vince grinned, reaching up and ruffling his hair absent mindedly, inadvertently smudging paint through the inky locks. He put down his palette and swivelled round on his stool to give Bollo his full attention.

“Email from agent. He send advance for next three books and ask for outline of story by Friday,” Bollo said, rifling through the papers to find the right envelope containing the much-needed cheque.

“Genius! I’ll go to the bank later today. I can get the outlines done tomorrow if you’ll type for me?” Vince’s highly creative mind didn’t really translate to technology – he was a renowned technophobe who swore his laptop had taken against him the second he got it out of the shop.

“Of course. What Charlie doing next?”

Vince’s kohl-lined eyes sparkled, “I’m thinking of sending him into the jungle; maybe have him meet some of my old friends. Then who knows, maybe he’ll go to the Wild West and become a sheriff or something.” He trailed off as his mind whirled, filled with possibilities for the bubble gum monster.

In these moments Bollo saw Vince as he was at the zoo, all cheeky smile and easy charm. The white cowboy boots even made the occasional appearance nowadays as Vince slowly got back to his old self, after…after what happened.

“No need for Weetabix packets now,” Bollo remarked with a deep chuckle.

Vince’s smile faded ever so slightly, “No,” he said, “Someone else prints ‘em for me now I guess.” He glanced down at his paint stained skinny jeans then met Bollo’s eye again. “What else you got there then?”

There was a tiny pause. “Postcard from Harold. He in Rome.” Bollo set it on the table with the cheque. Reaching out, Vince cast a cursory glance at the bright photo of the Coliseum, and flipped the post card over hurriedly, as though touching it for too long would burn his fingers. His eyes flicked over the message before he pushed it away and turned back to his easel.

“Bet he’s loving all the old stuff in Rome even if it is a million degrees there,” he commented.

Bollo grunted, unsure of what to say to that. Vince picked up his paintbrush and began to repair the damage from his earlier mistake.

*

TOKYO

The “Cars” intro blared out from somewhere in the kitchen and Vince scrabbled around the cluttered work top trying to locate his phone amongst all the baking debris whilst simultaneously balancing a large mixing bowl under his arm.

The screen was dusted liberally with flour but the name “Leroy” could be read flashing accusingly at him.

“Alright Leroy? Yeah no we’re getting on great, we’re baking.” Vince glanced across at Clarissa who was kicking her small legs under the table, tongue poking out one corner of her mouth, as she spooned liberal amounts of pink icing onto some fairy buns that Vince had quite literally made earlier.

“She’s dressed me up as a glam rock fairy, I’ve got wings and everythin’,” he laughed. “Yeah…Yeah alright then, see you in half an hour.”

He hung up and hovered over his god daughter’s shoulder, inspecting her handiwork. “Looking good, maybe we should add some more sprinkles before your dad picks you up?”

“Yeah, more sprinkles!” Clarissa squealed delightedly, clapping her sticky hands together and tipping an excessive amount of silver sugar sprinkles on to her creations, wincing as she noticed the mess she was making.

“Sorry Uncle Vince, I made a mess,” she said, her bright blue eyes peering up at him from under her fringe. He had to admire her use of puppy eyes, a trademark move that had got Vince himself out of a few tricky situations in his time.

“Don’t worry sweet, I’ll clean it up later. Might use some of my fairy magic.” She giggled and stuck her tongue out at him.

By the time Leroy arrived to pick up his daughter, the kitchen was slightly less messy but Vince’s glittery wings were still firmly in place and an unnoticed smudge of flour decorated his cheek. Leroy took one look at him and burst out laughing. “Never thought I’d see the day, mate,” he giggled, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Aw come on Leroy, I’m a big kid myself, it was only a matter of time that we discovered I actually get along with miniature people better than grown-ups.”

“Well, you did me a huge favour by watching her this afternoon, cheers. Oh, by the way,” Leroy handed over a small card rectangle, “I found this on the doormat.”

Vince peered warily at the picture on the front; pink cherry blossoms and mountains. He said nothing.

“Is it Howard?”

“Yeah.”

When it was clear that Leroy wasn’t going to let it drop, Vince continued. “He sends ‘em every six months or so. Bollo adds them to a map on the wall of the stock cupboard to track where he’s been. He don’t know I know.”

“What does it say?”

Vince scoffed “I don’t read ‘em Leroy, you know I can’t read.”

Leroy gave him the look that Vince had once dubbed The Eyebrow of Doom “We both know that’s not true.”

With a sigh, Vince relented, “Usually just says what he’s been up to and sends his best wishes to us all.” He lifted his chin defiantly, his blue gaze steely. “I don’t read ‘em all if I can help it.”

*

LONDON

The flash of the camera left him momentarily blinded as the photographer took the final shot to accompany the article. Vince blinked a couple of times to clear his vision then turned back to the journalist responsible for the feature - ‘In the studio with Vince Noir.’

“Nearly finished now Mr Noir, if you could just answer me one more question. Your Charlie books set you on the road to success and now you are exhibiting at one of London’s cutting-edge galleries, with many celebrities vying to purchase a Noir original. How do you feel about your rise to fame?”

“Genius yeah. It’s taken a while but I’ve always been a bit of a gifted child, you know.” He winked flirtatiously at the young redhead, whose cheeks burned pink as she asked her next question.

“And do you have someone special in your life with whom you can share this success?”

Closing his eyes momentarily, he took a split second to push down on all the hurt that welled up with that simple question. He cocked his head to once side, his tongue flicking out lick the corner of his mouth before replying, “That an offer love?”

One week after the article was published, a souvenir postcard from his very first exhibition came through the letter box. The address was scrawled in a familiar hand, but the rest of the card was blank.

*

It was a grey January day in a whole line of grey January days. After getting dressed Vince meandered into the kitchen, switching on the kettle then the radio. Ziggy Stardust filled the kitchen and Vince hummed along happily as he rummaged around the cupboards for tea bags and sugar, giving the milk a quick sniff to see if it was still usable.

Bopping his head, he prepared that ever necessary morning cuppa and set some bread in the toaster. As the song ended, the usually annoyingly chirpy DJ solemnly intoned, “Ziggy Stardust there. I’m sure you’ll all join me in reflecting on the genius of David Bowie, who has died today aged 69.”

Vince’s heart plummeted as his brain reeled in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. He stared down at the wooden grain of the table as his tea went cold and the smell of burning toast filled the air.

*

He’d had a few appointments that day that he’d had to keep, so it was nearing dusk by the time he managed to get to Brixton. Vince pulled his leopard print coat around himself to protect him from the damp chill as he exited the station, striding purposefully down the street in a clip-clop of Cuban heels, feeling his emotions swell as the sound of singing got closer and closer.

There, gathered around the mural painted on the side of a shop, hundreds of people had gathered to pay their respects, and Vince was no different. The atmosphere was indescribable, the very air seemed tinged with sorrow but all around him people were smiling, hugging, singing and playing guitar as they celebrated the life of the man who had been such an influence on so many people.

With a lump in his throat, Vince approached the makeshift shrine. One or two people in the crowd recognised him, eyes widening as they let him pass. Kneeling down among the flowers and candles, he pulled a worn piece of paper out of his pocket and propped it up between a Ziggy teddy bear and a vase of lilies.

The drawing was simple, a child’s drawing created at a time when there had only been two bright spots in an otherwise confusing life. David Bowie had been one of those bright spots, his androgyny and music a beacon to a confused child on the cusp of teenaged years. Drawing-David was in full Goblin King mode, his hair carefully replicated and his blue eye shadow now faded with age but still striking against his pale skin. Vince had lovingly drawn it at age thirteen with the posh art set Howard had got him for his birthday.

Next to him, a professional looking woman of about Vince’s age wiped away a tear, but Vince knew he wouldn’t cry. He just felt empty, and he’d felt empty for years. He looked up at the wall with its dedications and lyrics, and felt glad that at least he was here, at least he got to say goodbye properly.

He backed away to let other fans closer, but remained through the night, singing along with every single song.

As the crowd began to disperse, Vince too decided it was time to head home. He hopped from one foot to the other, flexing his aching feet before turning on his heel and accidentally bumping into a rather large, solid figure looming behind him.

“Sorry mate didn’t – “

He was dimly aware of his breath leaving his body, his knees giving way and the stranger reaching out with lightning reflexes to steady him with an arm around his waist.

“Vince.”

Vince peered up into the strangers face. He was older, his hair longer and greyer, back to the messy fall of curls it had been at the zoo. His moustache had taken over his face, becoming a full beard with a few streaks of grey. His tiny cockerel eyes were the same warm brown, though they were skittering about warily. He hadn’t moved his arm.

“Howard.”

Vince stepped back and took a deep steadying breath. Tilting his head to one side, he looked intently at his best friend, before clenching his hand into a fist and sending it flying at the other man’s jaw. Howard reeled, clutching the side of his face in bewilderment as Vince threw his arms around him, tucking his head in that spot between shoulder, neck and chin, dark hair in Howard’s face and shoulders shaking.

Hesitantly, Howard brought his arms up around the smaller man, holding him close. “Alright Little Man. I’m home.”


End file.
